Cursed
by KASLiNN
Summary: A near fatal run in with the thing that killed their mother leaves one of the brothers questioning his beliefs, and the other fighting for his life. With appearances by Missouri Mosley and :gaspu: the wayward John Winchester. UPDATE Dec. 7 2006
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, so there are probably plenty of other stories I should be working on, including the one I plan on publishing eventually. :-) But this just jumped out at me after reading a few absolutely stellar Supernatural fics here on good ol'fanficDOTnet. Tell you the truth, I'm surprised I lasted this long. Sam and Dean—especially Sam (Grr, baby, grr!)—are just so sexy and fun to play with. Oops, did that sound dirty? It did? Can't imagine why….

Anyway, fresh from the mind of Kaslinn (that's me), I give you:

**Cursed**

**Summary**: A near fatal run-in with the thing that killed their mother leaves one of the brothers questioning his beliefs, and the other fighting for his life. With appearances by Missouri Mosley and :gaspu: the wayward John Winchester.

**Warnings**: Let's see. What do you need to be warned of? Well, there's a fair bit of torture, physical and mental, and most of it is fairly Sam-centric, although this chapter deals primarily with Dean. Most chapters afterward (if there are any) will be written in Sam's point of view (in third person, of course. I just don't know first person well at all shudders) Don't worry Dean-fans, there will be plenty of lime light for the eldest Winchester son. I myself am a shameless Sam fangirl, though you wouldn't know by the way I torture him so. :Evil grin: What can I say? I show my affections in strange ways.

But warnings? Not a lot. Some blood, of course—it's a must for a good angsty fic! Quite a lot of swearing, but that's okay, our boys are grown men, after all. H/c, bonding, and chick-flick moments—all in the spirits of good, wholesome _brotherly_ love, and do allow me to stress the word brotherly. I don't have a problem with slash in most cases but incest is on a scale of gross all on its own. In other words, Sam and Dean will NOT be getting it on—or even making out, which is btw, NASTY—in this story. Oh, and I don't have a beta-reader; my best friend is the spell checker and sometimes even he fails me. So beware typos--they're ugly little things.

Oh, and this story is not one of those that starts at the end and works backward. The beginning _is _actually the beginning, despite the chapter title. Sorry for the slight contradiction there. The title just sounded cool. Yeah, I'm cheesy, I'm aware. Anyway, the only insight I'm going to give you as to what happened prior to the opening chapter will come in flashbacks and recounts from both the boys.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, save for Arena, and she doesn't really count seeing as how she dies before she's really even properly introduced.

**I. Beginning at the End**

Shawnee Theme Park in upstate New Jersey was condemned. Condemned for several reasons, the most prevalent being the number of unexplained deaths and freak accidents that occurred on its grounds during the days of its operation. Most claimed the place was haunted to begin with, and was now surely to be a portal for the supernatural after so many had lost their lives there. Whether these rumors--and the loss of business they inspired--or the stain of a bad reputation led the owner into bankruptcy was unclear, but not long after its inception, Shawnee Park was closed to the public.

Many years later, after the park closed down, there were a number of near fatal mishaps involving the youth of the town, dares and hazing and such like. A college freshman was nearly thrown to his death from a carriage of the old wooden Ferris wheel. Four high school students were trapped inside a ticket booth and almost froze to death during the frigid January night.

Local law enforcement was involved; Shawnee Park became, for a few months, a breeding ground for police cars and hidden surveillance cameras. Of course, knowing that the park was essentially forbidden made its luster and novelty even more appealing to the kids, who were more excited at the prospect of foiling the cops than experiencing a close encounter with a denizen from the spiritual world. They continued to make their nightly investigations of the place. Most returned without ever having seeing or heard anything. But some, some claimed that they'd been visited by a presence, or had been spoken to by a disembodied voice. It was these tales that sent more students flocking to the park to catch their own "Medium" moment.

These after hour visitations ended with the drowning of a young girl in Shawnee Lake. It took everyone off guard; she was the first to actually die at the park since it opened in the early nineteen hundreds. Since the death, people of the town avoided Shawnee like the plague, as if just realizing how truly eerie it was. Police cars dwindled; cameras were left to the wilderness. It became, for all practical purposes, abandoned and forsaken.

Naturally, spending the night at a place so deserted and so isolated would be terrifying for any normal human being. Six recorded deaths, countless rumored others, and reasonable cause for haunting? Any normal person would see the sign for Shawnee Park and keep driving the extra hundred miles to the town.

Dean Winchester, however, was not normal. Far from it. In fact, at a different time, Shawnee Park would be his cup of tea, right up his ally, and so on with the many other clichés that described his affinity for the paranormal. The park was the reason he had come to New Jersey in the first place, although he was presently sitting in an old ticket booth, not because he was investigating his newest ghost haunt, but because it was actually the safest place he knew to hide from the authorities.

Oh, it wouldn't last long, he knew. Sooner or later his trail would lead back to this place. A week ago he'd been poking around the town, scouring libraries and museums, asking questions without reservation about the park's history. After all, why not? As far as anyone in Shawnee knew, he was just another college student looking for a good way to start off a fraternity party. In hind sight, he wished he'd been a little more discreet. Maybe then he'd have more _time_. Time to think. Time to plan.

Time he just didn't have. Every minute that he passed sitting here in the cramped, moldy wooden cubicle was a minute of Sam's life that slipped away. And Sam's minutes were definitely limited by this point. Dean once again and for the umpteenth time cursed his terrible judgment. He just had this uncanny ability of refusing to listen to his baby brother's advice. Hadn't Sam told him not to come here? Hadn't he flat out told Dean that he'd had one of his freaky visions about Shawnee, warning them away? Why god, why didn't he listen?

_Because you were so sure that you could protect him_, whispered the snide, cruel voice in his head--the one that had been tormenting him for the last day and a half--_You were so damn sure that whatever came our way, you could keep him safe. Big brother Dean, indestructible, infallible, reliable to a fault._

_Also inexplicably full of shit. Look at him now, big brother Dean. Look at your baby brother, look at Sammy. He's dying, and it's your fault._

Dean growled and scrubbed at his forehead with the palms of his hands, as if he could iron out the wrinkles there. Talking back to the voice would do no good--it would only prove that he had, in fact, finally gone crazy--so he chose to ignore it. The task was becoming steadily harder; the voice was growing more savage as time marched on.

_Truth hurts, doesn't it?_

A low moan drew Dean away from the scathing comment he was formulating (even if it did mean he was talking to himself). The booth's interior was suspended in twilight, half illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon, half swathed in shadow, but he could still see Sam's pale face and the pained expression that twisted his boyish features. Dean shifted a little, trying not to jostle Sam too much. He wanted to make sure his kid bother could see his face when he woke.

_As if you'll be any comfort to him. It's your fault he's hurt. You got him into this mess._

"And I'll get him out of it," Dean grumbled, wishing intensely that the voice would just shut the hell up. A part of him knew that it was only his guilt speaking to him, and he could silence it as soon as he forgave himself. It was also the part of him that knew that he was truly not to blame for Sam's injury, or Arena's death. Unfortunately, this part of him was taking a backseat to the voice of guilt, and therefore he didn't pay much attention to it. Perhaps he should have, but he rather felt that having to listen to the voice was part of his punishment for failing Sam. If that was the case, he would deal with it. It was the least he could do.

Sam groaned again, distracting Dean from his possible post-traumatic breakdown. Groping around in the dark, Dean sought his brother's hand and grasped it firmly. A true-blue "chick flick" moment move, but he wanted Sam to know he was there for him.

"Sammy?" he said quietly, eyes flickering between watching his brother's face and the booth's single door. All of his senses were on the alert, for both human in nature and the otherworldly. The cops were still after him for Arena's murder; any minute now he was expecting a foot to bash in the door or the sound of sirens to fill the night air. But right now, the cops could wait. Dean focused all of his energy toward Sam, and into making his voice sound calmer than he really felt.

"Sammy?" he said again, giving Sam's hand a small squeeze. "You with me, buddy?"

With a gut wrenching whimper, Sam at last rose into consciousness, or at least, some semblance of it. His brown eyes were glazed with fever, and his gaze did not immediately rise to meet Dean's. When it did, Sam gave a pitifully weak smile. "Dean..."

"Hey there, baby brother," Dean couldn't help the return smile the spread across his face. "Glad to hear you talking again. How're you feeling?"

_What stupid question, dumbshit._

Dean flinched. Of course, what kind of question was that? Sam had narrowly avoided being gutted by the thing that killed their mom and Jessica, "narrowly" meaning slashed just shallowly enough to escape with his life but deep enough to make Dean question for how long he would be able to hold on to it. How was he feeling? Dean could've probably ventured a guess, one that didn't start with "I'm" and end with "peachy, thanks."

Sam didn't notice the falter, nor did he seem take offense to the question. He did chuckle humorlessly, a dry, rasping sound that only deepened Dean's concern rather than alleviate it. "I've...been better. How about...you?"

The absurdity it made Dean laugh, but the sound was closer to a sob than an expression of mirth. A knot lodged itself in his throat; suddenly his eyes were burning. Dean turned his face away, so Sam couldn't see the tears there.

"...Dean?"

"Jesus, Sammy, I wasn't the one who...I didn't almost die a few hours ago," Dean said, straining to keep his voice even and not quite succeeding. "You shouldn't have to ask about me, because in comparison, I'm fucking spectacular."

Several minutes of silence passed after this exchange; neither of the brothers knew what to say to follow-up. Dean knew he should tell Sam the details of what had happened back at the barn, and he knew he should tell him just how much trouble they were both in.

And Sam...Sam wanted to ask, but was having extreme difficulty in just staying conscious.

Finally, after battling a wave of nausea, the younger Winchester managed to gasp out a one word query: "Arena?"

**_Brown hair, cute silk pajamas, bunny slippers, all covered in blood. Sam's blood. His brother's blood. Right hand, five fingernails, dripping with it. Her face...confused, terrified, then sad and yet somehow understanding… before the gun went off. Twice._**

Dean shuddered. The name triggered the memory he'd been trying to suppress for the last four hours. Poor Arena. She realized what had happened right before the end, and she'd been truly repentant for it. She hadn't been evil. She didn't have to die. But Dean had shot her nonetheless. Twice. Point-blank with a twelve-gauge shotgun. (A/N: Or whatever the hell kind of gun Dean carries. I'm such a girl, I have no idea what is is other than it goes BANG and kills things. Sorry for the interruption)

But possessed or not, she'd been after Sammy. That had been her death warrant. Unfortunately for him, the police didn't quite see it that way. Would Sammy?

"Dean...?"

Dean realized he'd been staring off into space, looking ever bit the poor, scarred post-trauma patient he was supposed to be. Shaking off the memory as best he could, he turned back to Sam. His brother had grown paler, becoming an alarming shade of white that nearly matched the color of the moonlight. Truly, Sam looked on the verge of a faint, but was hanging onto consciousness for the news of the poor brunette Jersey girl. Dean took a deep, shamefully shuddering breath.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that _thing_ was in her until it was too late. All I saw was her bending over you, and you were covered in blood...I lost it. I...I shot her. And I killed her. The police have me pegged for her murder, that's why we're in this little shithole and not the hospital. Sammy...Sammy, I'm so sorry."

_But you can't say you didn't mean to kill her. Because you did. What a brave older brother you are. Shooting an innocent sixteen year old child. The police are after you for murder because that what you are. A murderer._

Dean choked back another sob, but couldn't stop the tears from falling. Sam's sudden silence did not help to sate his remorse. He had half hoped that his brother would comfort him, would reassure him that it wasn't his fault, that he'd only been trying to protect him. That everything would be okay. But that was Dean's line. He was the older brother. He was the one who was supposed to offer reassurances, condolences, lies, if he had too. Sam was the sensitive one. Dean was supposed to protect him.

_And what a wonderful job you're doing. On top of everything else, at least you're setting a good example._

That damned voice was relentless. Dean had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at it. That was all he needed, for Sam to think his brother had gone off the deep end. Assuming, of course, that Sam didn't think that already.

With all of his emotions boiling to breaking point, Dean reverted back into a role he was comfortable with: protector. Even if he was doing a shoddy job of it. It was what he knew best. Giving Sam's hand a brief squeeze, he adjusted the wad of cloth--his own shirt--over the gash in Sam's side and reapplied firm pressure to the wound. Sam stiffened and hissed through clenched teeth, making Dean's heart pound painfully in his chest.

"Sorry, Sammy," he said around the lump in his throat, "but it's gotta be done. I can't stitch you up without the first aid kit and it's too risky to go out in the open yet. But don't worry. I'll get you out of this. I'll get you somewhere safe. Just a few phone calls and soon you'll be on your way to recovery. You just gotta hold on until I can get you there, okay? Hold on for me, baby brother."

Sam's only response was a weak squeeze of Dean's hand, but to Dean, it was better than words. At least Sam hadn't completely lost faith in him. Yet.

A few hours passed. Maybe more, maybe less. Dean lost track of time, he was too preoccupied trying to riddle a way out of the mess he'd landed himself in. Naturally, he'd already tried to reach his father, several times. Each time he could only get John Winchester's voicemail message, which instructed the caller to phone him, Dean, if it was an emergency. Well, Dean certainly couldn't call himself, and even if he could, he wasn't sure he wanted his own help at the moment, since it had been his brilliance that had gotten them in trouble in the first place. After the first couple of tries, Dean gave up the effort. He only hoped his message would get through.

_Dad, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, come to New Jersey right now. Sammy's life is in danger and I'm wanted by the cops for murder. _

Any parent would have a heart attack, hearing their son relay that message. Dean hoped it would be enough to drag their father out of hiding. That is, _if_ he was capable of replying at all, though Dean tried hard not to think about the prospect otherwise.

But no message ever came through. And Dean, for the first time, began to doubt that his father was still alive. There was just no way that John Winchester could ignore his sons, especially when Dean had specifically mentioned that Sammy had nearly been killed by the thing that had murdered their mother. He felt sure that if their dad was able to contact them, he would have immediately done so after learning about their dilemma.

So that left Dean with a few options. His first option was to attempt an escape. His Impala was still parked in back lot of the fair grounds, out of the way of the prying eye but not exactly hidden either. One way or the other he'd have to move it soon, or their cover would be blown. He could chance leaving now, in the middle of the night, assuming that none of the roads had been blocked off yet. It could work; the murder had only happened the past evening, so the police would still be trying to get warrants out for his arrest. Chances were that there would be no barricades or warnings out until morning. If he could get to the car without being seen, and likewise leave town without being noticed, he could be out of New Jersey by dawn.

But...Sam complicated things. His younger brother had lost a lot of blood in the attack, and without stitches, he would continue to bleed sluggishly through the shirt/bandage until he had nothing left to bleed. Moving him around at the fast paced speed that a silent escape required would most likely kill him. Dean had seen a man bleed out once; it had not been a pleasant sight. For Sammy to suffer the same fate was unbearable and unacceptable.

That led to his second, and most desperate, option: turn himself in. While Dean didn't exactly relish the idea of doing life in prison, it seemed like the best way to get Sam to a hospital quickly. The police did think Sam was one of Dean's victims, after all. No doubt his kid brother would be looked after. It seemed pretty cut and dry. Leave right now and walk to police station, tell them where Sam was and start preparing his story for court. Maybe he'd even get lucky and get a decent state-appointed lawyer. Maybe he wouldn't even get a life sentence.

_No, I'd say you're looking at 95 years tops, buddy-boy. Nothing too serious. Don't sweat it, no big deal._

Unfortunately, that was not the snide voice that had been hissing at him for so long. No, that was just his own well-perfected sense of sarcasm rising up to bite him in the ass. Dean shook his head. He didn't think of himself as a coward, but he really, _really_ did not want to end up behind bars for the rest of his life.

But if it meant saving Sammy...

Dean sighed and rested his head against the cold, rotting wood wall. There was always the third option, but it was far-fetched at best. He could call for help. He just needed to think of who to call. Besides the Ghostbusters (and yes, he was trying really hard not to think about how his little joke was so painfully ironic). He needed someone he could trust. Someone that lived far away from New Jersey and could put him and Sam up for several weeks, maybe months at most. Most importantly, he needed someone that knew his story, so there wouldn't be too much unnecessary explaining.

Obviously his father was out of the question. He'd been robbed of his mother at an early age, and had never quite settled down enough to attract a steady girlfriend. No grandparents to speak of, and no close friends of the family.

"Who you gonna call?" Dean sang softly, a shadow of a mirthless grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Right, like any Ghostbuster or psychic or medium could possible help..."

He trailed off. The word psychic had triggered a thought. There was one person who he knew he could trust, one that knew their story very well, and she lived a long, long way from New Jersey.

Kansas, in fact. Lawrence, Kansas.

"Home again, home again, jigity-jog," Dean muttered under his breath, and pulled out his cell phone. With a few clicks, Missouri Mosley's phone number glared up at him from the iridescent screen.

He hit the call button and waited.

Missouri was in the middle of making herself a cup of tea when the phone rang. Now, most people who find themselves awake during the wee hours of the morn would usually react badly to such a rude intrusion. However, Missouri happened to be waiting for the call. She knew who was on the other line, and it was because of this knowledge that she was awake. The dread and apprehension in the air had been too thick for her to sleep.

Hurrying from her small kitchen to the hall, he lifted the phone from the cradle and raised it to her ear. Without bothering to ask, she greeted, "Dean. I knew you would be calling soon."

The voice that came across the speaker did not sound like the confident young man she'd met a few weeks ago. This Dean sounded tired, scared, and worried, or in other words, like a nervous wreck. "Course you did. Psychic and all that. Listen, Missouri, sorry for calling so late, but I really need your help. Sam and I are in a lot of trouble and I...I didn't know who else to call."

"It's all right, I understand. Now calm down, and talk to me slowly. What happened? Where are you?"

"Shawnee, New Jersey. Sam and I were on a hunt, just a normal hunt. We didn't think it was anything special, you know? Just a regular job. But when we got there...Missouri, that thing followed us. The thing that killed mom and Sam's girlfriend, it was there. It was after us...well, it was really after Sammy."

Missouri nodded, a sense of dread washing over her. She figured something like this would happen soon. Sam's spiritual powers were growing and the boy didn't even know it. The evil that was after that power was bound to have reappeared to claim it. She'd been worried for his safety, for both of them, but she hadn't thought anything would happen quite this soon...

Realizing that Dean had gone quiet waiting for her reply, she cleared her throat. "What happened, Dean? Is Sam all right?"

More silence--hesitation.

"No. No, he's not all right. It got to him. It possessed the body of one of the town girls we were trying to help. I was in the park, I couldn't stop it...It..it cut Sam across the stomach like it did with our mom. He's alive, but if I can't get him somewhere safe soon so I can stitch him up, he'll bleed out."

"Well, why the hell are you hanging around in Jersey for, boy?" Missouri demanded, though she felt there was more to this story than Dean was telling her. "You know you don't need permission to come to here if something's happened to one of you."

"I know, I know! Don't you think I would take him to the hospital if I could? It's not that simple!"

Missouri frowned. "Why not?"

Dean now sounded absolutely harassed. "Because I shot and killed the girl that the thing had possessed to get it away from Sam, okay? I killed her, and the police are now after me for her murder. If I leave right now I can probably get away before they block off the roads and I can make it to Kansas in a few days. Now can I bring Sammy there or not?"

Though she was reeling from the information Dean had just provided her with, Missouri knew her answer right away. "Of course you can. Leave as soon as you get off the phone. Drive halfway, I'll meet you in Illinois. You'll want to get rid of your car as soon as you can."

"Meet you where in Illinois?"

A noise from the basement made her jump. Someone was coming up the stairs. "I'll call you. Or you call me. It doesn't matter. But in two days, we'll talk again, Dean. You keep yourself safe now, hear? And Sam too."

There was a fraction of hesitation on the other line, and Missouri could feel the elder Winchester's guilt even from hundreds of miles away. It almost made her weep. Then Dean said firmly, "I will." And the connection was lost.

"I will," Dean promised around the lump in his throat, then ended the call. It was time to move. After checking the makeshift bandage around Sam's side to make sure it was as tight as it would go, Dean shifted out from underneath his brother carefully. Standing for the first time in a few hours, Dean worked out all his cramps, stretched his muscles, and gave himself a good shake, like a runner preparing for a marathon. Then he knelt and tapped Sam gently about the face.

"Sammy," he said, voice just over a whisper. "Sammy, time to wake up."

Sam stirred, moving his head from side to side, but didn't wake.

Dean tapped his face a little harder. "Come on buddy, wake up. It's time to go."

Groaning, Sam rose once more into consciousness, but his eyes only half opened. "D-Dean..."

Dean didn't like the way Sam was gazing at nothing, and he especially didn't like the slow, raspy breaths his brother was slowly drawing in. But there was no time for complete mother hen mode. "Hey there, kid," he said, briefly running his hand over the top of Sam's curly brown hair, like they were kids again. "With me now? Good. 'Cause it's time we got moving."

"Moving...?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, we've hung out here long enough. I found us a place to hide out for a while. Remember Missouri Mosley? She said she'd put us up at her place. Now come on, sit up. I'll help you."

To his credit, Sam really did try. He made it to propped up position on his elbows, teeth gritted, face gleaming with sweat, before his arms gave out and he fell. He would have hit the floor again if Dean hadn't been there, one arm wrapped around his shoulders.

"I can't...I can't..." Sam gasped out, sagging limply in Dean's hold. "Sorry..."

"Yes, you can," Dean said firmly, tightening his grip. "You just need more help, that's all. I'm gonna lift you up and you're gonna stand, okay? Count of three. One, two, three!"

On three he gently began lifting, pulling Sam up and onto his feet. The motion made Sam cry out in sudden pain, and he staggered, almost falling. Dean ducked under his left arm, letting him lean all his weight on him. "That's good, Sammy, you're doing great. We're just gonna walk to the car, and then it'll be over. Okay? Stay with me now."

Sam nodded shakily. The younger Winchester's pallor had worsened rapidly; he'd gone from being a pasty white to a stark gray, and he was shaking uncontrollably. Dean cursed himself colorfully, in as many different languages as he could remember. He was rushing things, he knew. But he was scared. Scared that if he waited any longer, he would be in prison and Sammy would be dead.

They started walking, so slowly it was almost pointless, but Dean wasn't willing to push Sam any further than he could take. Already he looked on the verge of passing out. Even the pace they were taking seemed too much for him. Sam was breathing heavily, and his head constantly drooped and rolled from side to side; during such times Dean was practically dragging him across the dew covered grounds.

They were within sight of the parking lot when Sam stopped. He slumped against Dean, his head dropping down to rest on the shoulder pad of Dean's leather jacket. His breathing came at random intervals, gasps for breaths that sounded far too much like the wheezing of an asthmatic.

Dean could feel him shivering. If Sam didn't have a fever, then he was probably going into shock, and honestly he didn't know which one would be worse at the moment. "Come on, Sam, don't stop now. We're almost there. Just a few more steps."

"D...Dean..." It was so soft he almost didn't hear it, but Dean knew that his brother was pleading with him to stop. Again, he cursed himself for putting him through so much pain. That was just another notch on his Guilt-O-Meter. Another shiny star for being such a wonderful big brother.

Dean forced back the bitterness with effort. With his free hand, he cupped Sam's face and directed his gaze at his own. Even though the night was chilly, Dean could feel a steady heat radiating from Sam's skin, the kind of heat that leached the cold from his own fingers. Yep, definitely a fever. Wonderful. "Sammy, I know it hurts, and you have no idea how sorry I am, but we have to keep going. I promise once we get in the car, you can lie down in the back and sleep until we get to Missouri's. When you wake up, it'll all be over. You just have to keep walking. Please?"

By way of reply, Sam took a faltering step forward, followed by another, but he was unable to completely muffle his pained groans. Dean heard every one of them, and they made his heart ache.

"Sammy, I wish I could help," he said as they walked. "But I can't carry you the way I carried you out of our burning house, you're a little big for that now. And trust me, buddy, a fireman's carry would only hurt more than help."

Through his great heaves of air, Sam managed to grunt, "Don't need...to be carried. And don't call me...Sammy."

His indignation was actually comforting to Dean, who gave a genuine chuckle and nodded. Together they closed the last few yards between them and the parked Impala. Dean fumbled for the keys one handed, found them in his back pocket, and unlocked the rear passenger's side door. Gently he helped Sam to lie down across the bench seat, wincing sympathetically when Sam did and mentally berating himself with an inventive string of swear words that would make Jerry Springer proud.

But so far, so good. No cops, no vengeful townspeople. Hell, even the ghosts of Shawnee Park had left them well enough alone. Dean climbed into the driver's seat and made an effort to shut the door quietly after him, rather then slamming it closed as he usually did. He slid the key into the ignition and turned. The engine whined and spluttered for a few dreadful moments, but the girl remained faithful as ever and soon she was purring like a kitten.

Dean threw her into drive, ready to tear out of there like a bat out of hell, but his foot hovered over the gas for a few seconds. He turned to look back at Sam, and found that he'd fallen asleep again. That was fine though; Dean had promised him after all. He watched Sam pull in breath after shallow breath, and wondered, with a grim smile, when along the way his kid brother had grown up. Sam had acted like a real man last night, a real hero. A true Winchester. Not that it surprised him, or anything. Sam was every bit as brave as himself or their father. It was just that Sam had always been the one who needed protecting, shielding. For a brief couple of hours, that role had been reversed, and for the first time, Dean had known what it was like to have someone--his brother--watching over him.

He didn't quite like the feeling. He was older, for God's sake, nearly twenty eight. Dean Winchester did not need protecting. He was much more comfortable being the protector. Even if Sam was constantly telling him he didn't need all the attention.

But it was strange. Somehow, though he was twenty two years old, though he was six foot two and no longer "little Sammy," his baby brother just looked so vulnerable to him. Dean supposed he always would. His younger brother, the sensitive one, the delicate one, the intellectual. Ever since that night at their old house, nearly twenty three years ago, when his father had thrust the infant Sam into his arms and told him to run and not look back, he'd swore he would always be there for his brother. The way their mom wasn't able to be there for him, and the way that their father wasn't always able to express.

As if knowing that Dean was thinking about him, Sam sighed and turned fitfully in his sleep. Dean didn't need the snide voice to point out that in the last twenty four hours, he'd done a lousy job fulfilling his oath. The proof of it was right in front of him, every time he looked at the blood that covered Sam's shirt, and the memory of it would linger for every nightmare Sam (or himself, for that matter) had in the years to come concerning the events that had transpired last night.

_Never again. _

Dean made a new promise. Never again would he let something like this happen. Whatever he had to do, he would make sure that Sam's life was never endangered because of him again. Even if it meant leaving him. Even if it meant letting him go.

"We're going home, Sam," he said, though he was fairly sure Sam couldn't hear him. "We're gonna be there a nice long while."

And in his heart, Dean Winchester knew that when the time came to leave Lawrence again, he and Sam wouldn't be leaving together.

Feeling sick at heart, he drove the pedal to the floor and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Shawnee Theme Park, his first ever failed mission, to the rearview mirror.

And end the first chapter. Just a few things to say before I go, if you'll bother reading them. First of all, there really is a Shawnee Theme Park in New Jersey, but I don't exactly know _where_ in New Jersey, so the upstate thing might have been a lie. I also confess that I don't know how to spell Shawnee, and that this was my best guess. I only know the park exists because I saw it on ABC Family's **Scariest Places on Earth**. If anyone out there actually lives around Shawnee and was offended by my ignorance, I apologize and I ask that you contact me and correct my mistakes. Thank you!

Secondly, you might be wondering about Arena. No, she wasn't anyone special, just another townsperson who happened to be an unfortunately casualty of ghost hunting. Like I said, she was dead when the story opened, so…:shrug: She gets mentioned again later, but only in flashbacks and when Dean tells a certain someone about what happened.

Lastly…and I hate to say it…I'm not _entirely_ sure I'm going to continue this story. At least, not right away. :ducks the random sharp and potentially dangerous objects that are hurled at her head: Yeah, lame, isn't it? I must confess I wrote this at a whim to unblock the stoppage that had been clogging my creative flow over the past few weeks. I needed the excuse to write something that didn't matter (or mattered less, I should say) to get over the pressures of writing my novel. Ha ha, yes, my novel, go ahead and laugh.:-P This has sort of been my stress reliever, if you know what I mean. Whether there will be a second chapter or this will be a really sucky one-shot will depend on my inspiration holding up.

But, hey! The best way to get me to continue is to leave a review and tell me what you think! If you liked it, tell me so! If you didn't…well, tell me anyway. I'm always open to hear ideas and suggestions, and I love constructive criticism. I won't even tell you not to flame, since this piece is likely not one of my best works and I'm not particularly fond of it yet.

I'll leave it up to you. Continue, or just leave it as it is? If I keep going, you'll find out who was in Missouri's house at the end of her conversation with Dean (as if you didn't already know) and we'll get more brotherly bonding action, of course. Sam may even….:dramatic pause: …take a turn for the worse! Ha ha ha ha! ;:cue cheesy music:

If not…:shrugs: Then whatever. Make up your own ending, lol. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: First of all, let me just say: WOW. I honestly didn't expect this to get so well received. I mean, sweet wounded Tabitha, 30 reviews for one chapter? Seriously, the most reviews I've EVER had for a story has been 29, and that particular piece had four chapters!

So here's to you, the reviewers: You guys are **stellar**! You really made my day, saying all those wonderful, helpful things about my writing. You guys really do make it all worth while. And since you all did such a marvelous job (I'm still blushing, seriously!), here's the reward. As promised, I went ahead and wrote up a second chapter. Aren't you proud of me? An update in only four days! It's unheard of. /grin/

**Warnings**: Same as the first chapter, with Sam-angst being quite a bit heavier this time around, since I tackle the story from his perspective. And let me tell you, I had fun. /devious smile/ Beware the overload of cheesy drama; it can be nauseating at first. As always, H/c, a little swearing though I don't think I dropped the F-bomb this time (I don't know, I lose track. Dean's mouth gets away from me sometimes /giggle/), and there is a scene that is a tad more gruesome than your typical off-hand mention of blood and injury, although it's nothing that they would avoid on the actual show. Oh, and I really didn't get a chance to proof-read this one--I was far too eager to share it with you all, before one of you resorted to something drastic, lol. I did spell-check, of course, but there might be a few more errors in this than there was last time. Bare with me, and try not to laugh too hard at my expense.

**Disclaimer**: The only thing I own is my imagination, and sometimes even that escapes me.

So let's just jump right in, shall we? It picks up where we left off with Missouri in her small, quaint home in Kansas. If you'll recall, she'd just heard someone coming up the stairs. Wonder who it is….

**II. Take Me Home**

For a moment or two after Dean cut the connection, Missouri remained where she was, the finality of a dial tone buzzing tonelessly in her ear. She could still feel lingering traces of Dean's fear and guilt; the emotions were so powerful she could sense them even now, after the call had ended. She shuddered; the intensity of it gave her goose bumps.

"Missouri?"

Distracted and thus caught off-guard, she jumped at the quiet query. Turning around with a hand over her heart, she treated the man in the stairwell with her fiercest stare. "John Winchester, you got to warn a person before you just go sneaking up on them like that. You nearly gave this poor woman a heart attack!"

John met her glare with a dry smile. "I didn't think that rule applied to psychics. Didn't you know I was coming?"

Although she was expecting a comment like this, it didn't stop the flush of embarrassment that sent blood rushing to her face. Pointedly she decided to ignore the jibe; instead she glared even more severely at her house guest and gestured at the phone still held in her hand. "That was your eldest son on the phone just now. He called to tell me that—"

"That he and Sam are in trouble," John sighed, rubbing his hand over a face that hadn't seen a razor in days. The stubble kept good company with the dark circles under his eyes and the sallow sag in his cheekbones. "I know. He called my cell and left a message not too long ago."

Missouri stared at him, not in anger now but in shock. "You mean to tell me you wouldn't even pick up the phone to talk to him? John, do you have any idea what kind of trouble those boys are in?"

"I know they ran up against the thing that killed Mary, but that they managed to escape," said John evenly, but there was no mistaking the growing worry in his eyes, behind his steely composure. Missouri gave him a skeptical look, one which he glared fiercely back at. "Look, my boys are strong, capable, and more intelligent than I've ever given them credit for. They're grown men now, Missouri, and they don't need their father to come charging to their rescue whenever things go wrong."

_Yes, they do! They need their father, John, they've always needed you! And here you stand, ignoring their very existence. Abandoning them!_

But unfortunately, John Winchester could not read minds, and Missouri didn't have the heart to say such cruel things to his face. When she spoke, her tone was as gentle as she could make it. "Whenever things go wrong?" She echoed, and shook her head. "This isn't something as simple as a ghost hunt gone wrong. This thing that attacked them, it is pure evil. Not some vengeful spook."

John did not meet her eyes. "I know that. Of course I know that. But..."

His protest trailed off as he searched for an excuse he couldn't find the words for. Missouri, feeling suddenly tired, rested the phone back on its cradle and closed the distance between them. She rested a hand on his arm. "John, you know I have nothing but the greatest confidence in your sons, and I know you feel the same way. Dean is very resourceful, and almost as stubborn as you. Sam...his powers are growing every day. Hell, I can feel his energy even when he's hundreds of miles from Kansas. But neither of them were ready to face this thing. They're lucky to even be alive."

"But they _are_ alive," John shrugged out of her grip, "They were strong enough without me. They always have been."

But the seed of doubt had been planted. Missouri could tell by his composure, by the anxiety in his voice. Yet still he clung to the firm belief that he had to abstain from contact his sons. She had often seen him this way, torn between his duty as a father and his self-imposed mission. It was a never ending battle, and it was tearing the man up inside. She didn't need a psychic's powers to see that.

A new approach was needed if she ever hoped to convince this man that she was right. Carefully keeping accusation out of her voice, she persisted, "Dean sounded absolutely frantic, and you know better than me how good that boy is at keeping a poker-face. I'm worried about Sam, John. Really worried."

"Don't you think I am?" And she could see that he was. She could also sense it; fear rolled of John Winchester in waves, the sort of unchecked terror only a parent can feel when he knows his son is in danger.

Knowing this, Missouri strained to keep the tartness out of her words. "You sure have a funny way of showing it."

John groaned, a mixture of frustration and helplessness. "What is it you want me to do? Get in the car and drive to Jersey right now?"

"I don't know," Missouri said, raising her eyebrows. "Don't ask me to decide for you. Of course, I think you ought to decide for yourself what's best for you and your boys. But you better do it soon. As soon as the sun rises, I'm on my way to Illinois."

"Illinois?"

Forgetting all about her tea, sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, Missouri scaled the stairs to her room. "That's where I'm meeting Dean. I'm bringing your boys home, John. Whether or not you're gonna welcome them back is up to you, but I expect you know the right answer, somewhere in that blackened heart of yours."

Scowling, John watched her limp up the stairs. If he had been less mature--more like Sam or Dean--he would have made a face at her retreating back. "Psychics..." he muttered under his breath, and went in search of the aforementioned tea. "They always have to have the last word."

But the thing that infuriated him most...

Missouri was right.

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_Arena hadn't followed the plan. She wasn't supposed to be anywhere near this place; she was supposed to have gone home and locked all her doors, all her windows, and drawn a ring of salt around her bed. She was supposed to have been safe._

_Contrary to popular belief, Fate hates the term "supposed to."_

_Sam cursed again under his breath, a not-so-mild oath that his great Aunt Linda would have had him eating soap for. He should have known that Arena wouldn't have just given up and gone home like a good little girl. It had been too easy to get her to acquiesce; she'd been to willing, too eager. The teenager was obsessed with Dean, and selflessly helpful to a fault. Of course she would follow him to the barn. She had spiritual powers; she probably thought she could be of some use._

_What she didn't know--what Sam had just realized--was that those same spiritual powers made her a perfect vessel for possession. At the very least, she could be used as bait. And with that _thing _on the loose..._

_Sam put on an extra burst of speed, making his legs and lungs scream in protest. So many consecutive sleepless nights had put him past the point of exhaustion, and the terrain was growing steadily steeper and rockier. Still, he forced himself to go on, to go even faster. Ahead, the single baleful light from the barn loft burned like a beacon, spurring him on. _Just a little more...just a little farther...

_But the knowledge of what was waiting for him in that barn made his steps falter, made his already unsteady legs turn to jelly. The thing that had killed his mother and Jessica...it was waiting for him there. It was always waiting for him. Twice he had escaped it. Would he be able to this time? Especially since he might very well be on his own now, since Dean hadn't been warned in time about the mortal danger he was in. His older brother didn't know about Arena's spiritual prowess. He wouldn't know that the sweet, charming girl that he now gazed upon might be creature that had murdered their mother. Perhaps he was already dead..._

_But no. No, Dean couldn't be dead. Sam knew that for a fact, and it wasn't just his denial talking to him. The thing killed with fire. Since the barn was not yet ablaze, he knew that Dean was still alive._

_He still had time. Dean had always been there for him. Now it was Sam's turn to protect him._

_Fueled by determination, Sam found the strength to make his tired, sore legs to pump faster, covering the hilly ground in long strides that ate up the distance between him and the barn. He was at the threshold in what seemed like seconds, and in a second of weakness he bend double, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Then he forced himself to straighten, and step shakily forward through the open doors._

_It was dark within. Thin, dust spattered beams of light filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, but the illumination was swallowed up by the darkness below, the darkness in which Sam crouched, straining to control his heavy breathing. Every inhale was twice as loud in the oppressive silence; his frantic heartbeat sounded like the thundering of a bass drum. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, repeating the process until he able to do so without exercising conscious thought. Even when he was breathing normally again, his pulse was his racing, his heart still pounding. A cold sweat had broken out over his body, and small tremors raced unchecked down his spine._

_Sam was terrified._

_It was this place. He'd seen it so often in his nightmares; glimpses in black in white, snatches of a foggy, fuzzy picture as if seen through bad reception on a television. All of them ended as he scaled the wooden, molding ladder, never allowing him to see what was waiting for him at the top. He had his suspicions, but the confirmation was never made, night after night. _

_It was the not knowing that made the dream so frightening. He would always wake, shaking and dripping in sweat, like he was now, always afraid to attempt sleep again, just in case...just in case the next time he actually would find out._

_But this was no dream. Sam shuddered, gazing upon the familiar ladder in front of him. Whoever...whatever...was at the top, he would soon find out._

_For a moment, he considered running. The thought was so tempting, sweet like candy and much more tantalizing. If he left now, he could make it back to the car and be miles away from Shawnee by sunrise. Where ever he wanted to go...back to law school...back to a normal life...forget about the thing that hunted him..._

_But the thing would never forget about him, and he could never outrun it. Besides that, he couldn't leave Dean. Life, even a normal life, wouldn't be the same without Dean. And life, he knew, would be bitter and empty, knowing that he had left his brother to die at the hands of the _thing

_Sam grabbed the sides of the ladder with both hands, feeling its damp, rotting surface all to real under his palms, and started climbing. For every rung he ascended, his heart hammered twice as hard against his chest and his stomach gave an unsettling flip-flop._

Get it together, Sammy. Dean'll never let you hear the end of it if he finds out you're acting like such a pansy. He already thinks you're too weak for this job already. Prove him wrong. You can do this.

_The last rung was in his hands all too soon. Sam reached for the next and touched a warped wooden floor, run smooth by time and the trespassing of many feet. Steeling himself with one last deep breath that was too shaky for his liking, he pulled himself up into the loft._

_Surprisingly, it was empty. The small space was occupied by nothing but hay and spare farming tools. No Arena. And no Dean, either. A sigh of relief came from Sam in the form of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Arena hadn't come hear after all. That meant Dean must still be at the park, conducting his research. Arena wouldn't dare go there, she was too scared of the place. Dean was safe._

_Sam started to turn around, to go back to the hotel and put the barn from his mind forever._

_Something hot and wet dripped onto his forehead, then onto his cheek. _

_He froze mid-step, heart skipping a few dizzying beats._

Oh God no...Not that...Let it be something else...anything else...

_Another drop splattered onto his nose; a drop trickled into the corner of his mouth. Sam nearly retched at the sour, metallic taste on his tongue._

_Blood._

_A part of him didn't want to look. Out of sight, out of mind. He didn't want to see, he didn't want to know. But a force, of his own nature or of the supernatural, forced his chin up, raised his face to the ceiling._

_It was Arena. Stomach brutally slashed open in a fashion he was starting to become horrifyingly familiar with. Her blue eyes were wide open and staring at him, her mouth open in a silent scream._

_But it was not the death of the Jersey girl, however tragic, that forced all the air out of Sam's lungs, made his knees so weak that they could no longer hold him, made his stomach roil like he was going to be sick. It was not Arena's blood that had dripped onto his forehead._

_It was Dean's. _

_Sam stared, transfixed, into his older brother's sightless eyes, which were so full of accusation and wrath that he heaved and vomited onto the loft's blood stained floor. And he could see it now; the entire room was dripping with it. Blood. Dean's blood._

_Sam watched the solitary spark leap into existence beneath Dean's body. The fire quickly consumed him, enveloping Arena and the entire building in flame. Sam felt the heat against his body, felt the pain of it burning him alive. He stumbled back, fumbling for the ladder, and plunged over the edge of the loft._

_A figure emerged from the fire and watched him fall. In that moment, even as the wind roared passed his blistered, burned body, Sam saw it smile._

**You are mine**

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"NO!"

The terrified scream ripped from Sam's throat even before his eyes had fully opened. A unfamiliar ceiling--bodiless--swam into view, and confusion washed over him along with waves of fear. Where was he? The barn...it was on fire...he'd tripped...Sam started, remembering the nauseating feeling of plummeting off the edge of the loft. How was he still alive? That fall should have killed him, the fire should have killed him...He could still feel the agony of flames licking his body, scalding his flesh. He ached all over, his right side throbbed with pain. Why...?

_You are mine._

The echoing voice of the thing sounded so close, almost as if it where whispering in his ear. Panic gripped him; in a burst of adrenaline, he sat bolt upright, breathing hard. The thing was after him again, it had followed him. He had to run, he had to get away--

--then his right side exploded with such fierce pain all other thought was obliterated from his head. Sam screamed again, this time a cry of agony, shutting his eyes tight as if to shield him. He forced himself to be still, hunched over on himself, one hand clutching his side, too afraid to move in case it made the hurt worse--

"Sammy?"

The voice was soft and full of concern. Not the voice of the thing. It was familiar to him, but Sam couldn't think of the name. He couldn't think of anything past the pain. He tried to speak but all that came out was a groan.

"Sam, you need to lie down. You'll ruin all the hard work I just did stitching up your stomach. Not too fast now. That's it. Easy does it."

Sam let the owner of the calming voice help him lie back, shivering as cold hands guided him back onto a lumpy mattress and firm pillows. Little by little the red haze of pain faded until he was able to think clearly again. He opened his eyes.

It was Dean. Dean was sitting next to him on the bed, regarding him with a worried look.

_Dean's blood dripped into his eyes. Dean was pinned to the ceiling, gutted like a fish. Dean was screaming at him that's he failed, that Sam had let him die. It was all Sam's fault, Sam was cursed--_

The memory was even clearer than the voice of the thing. Sam jolted in surprised, recoiling from his brother as if he'd grown another head. The pain flared up again, and he grimaced, instantly growing still. It didn't help.

Dean restrained him anyway, holding him gently but firmly by the shoulders and pinning him to the mattress. Sam shivered; his brother's hands were like ice against his hot skin. It felt real. But was it?

"What did I just say? Stop moving around," Dean scolded him, but the rebuke was empty of any real scorn. Sam shook his head, unable to get a grip on reality; every time he blinked he saw his brother suspended on the ceiling. The horrifying scene in the barn...it had been so real...had it been a dream? Or was he dreaming now? Would he soon wake, burned and bleeding, in the hands of the thing? If that were true, he had to tell Dean now, while he had the chance. He had to apologize for failing him.

"Dean," Sam started, surprised at how weak he sounded. "Dean, I'm sorry. I let you down."

"What? Sammy, what are you talking about?"

"The thing. I let it get to you. I let it get Arena," Sam gasped out. The pain was getting worse for some reason. It was shutting down his body, darkening the edges of his vision. No, no he didn't want to go to sleep. If he was truly awake, he might have another nightmare. If he was dreaming right now...he might soon wake up to a reality he didn't want to face. A reality without Dean.

But Dean was shaking his head. "No, no you didn't. It didn't get me, it got you. You saved me, Sammy, you put yourself in danger for me. And don't you ever do it again, you hear?"

"I saved you...? But...I thought..." Sam could see it now, he remembered being in the barn that night. But it had happened differently...The thing had possessed Arena, and Sam had gone to the barn on purpose, to keep it away from Dean...Dean had never been there at all, not until the end...

"You were dreaming, Sammy," Dean said firmly, giving him a small shake. "It was just a dream. Whatever you saw, it didn't really happen, and it isn't going to happen."

"But the barn...you were on the ceiling," Sam muttered, starting to shiver. Dean's hands still felt frigid where they were touching his bare skin, and the contact was starting to hurt. "Your blood was...it dripped onto my...and the fire..."

Dean shook his head again. "I'm fine. There was no fire."

This just didn't fit. Everything else but this. "But I was burned," Sam protested, writhing under Dean's grip. "I can feel it. Let go of me, Dean, please. You're hurting me!"

Dean looked positively alarmed, but he did release Sam's arms. "You have a fever, Sam. A bad one. That's probably why you feel like you were burned 'cause you do kinda feel like you're about to spontaneously combust. I think it's also making you delirious or something because I have never seen you like this."

"I am not delirious," Sam gritted his teeth against the pain, which was making his head spin. His mind was in turmoil; he couldn't seem to form rational thought. His reality spun wildly between Dean's story and his own, although he couldn't be sure if his own version was really the truth or merely a dream. According to Dean it was, but what if he was dreaming right now, or what if Dean way lying to him for some reason, or...

A horrible thought occurred to Sam then, and if any part of his brain had been able to think logically he would have then realized that his fever had indeed made him delirious, for the idea was so ludicrous. But it sounded perfectly sound to him.

"You...you're not Dean. You're not real," Sam inched backward across the bed, hissing at the pain it caused him. "You're the thing...or another shapeshifter. You have to be lying, I saw Dean die!" And he had. On the ceiling of the barn, next to Arena, slashed across the midriff, consumed by fire. The thing, the dark figure, the smile...

_You are mine._

"No. No, no, no, no," Sam moaned, a mantra he repeated to himself in hopes that the repetition would make it true. He curled in on himself, cradling his head in his hands, blocking out the images of Dean's mutilated body and the shadow silhouetted by flame.

Then Dean grabbed his hands, forced them down to his sides, and placed his palms against his face, guiding Sam's eyes towards his. "Sammy. Look at me, for Christ's sake. Calm down, you're starting to scare me. I need you to listen. You were dreaming. It was a nightmare, nothing more. I was not in that barn with Arena. You were. I did not get slashed across the stomach. You did. But I saved you, all right? I stopped the thing. It's gone now, long gone. We're miles away from Jersey, so you can relax. I'm taking you home, remember? To Missouri's?"

Missouri Mosley's. The ticket booth in Shawnee Park. Home. Slowly the details of his dream faded and became just that. A dream. The panic lessened it's grip around his heart. Sam nodded slowly when he realized Dean was waiting for an answer. "It just...it was so real," he said in a small voice, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

"It wasn't," Dean reassured him, and withdrew, walking away from the bed. For a moment Sam thought he was being abandoned, but Dean returned momentarily with a damp cloth in hand and placed it across Sam's forehead.

The coolness was almost painful. "C-Cold," he stammered, and reached up to remove it. Dean caught his hand and put it back at his side.

"It's good for you. Don't touch it," he commanded. After a few seconds silence, he said gruffly, "You should go back to sleep. We're leaving in the morning for Illinois."

Sam frowned. Missouri lived in Kansas. Wasn't that where Dean said they were going? "Illinois...?"

"We're meeting Missouri there, so I can hide my car. It's about seven hundred miles from here. We can be there within a day if we don't have to stop too much."

"Okay," said Sam, lacking anything more to say and too busy trying to ignore the consistent ache that stemmed from the wound in his side. Dean must have noticed his pained grimace, for he ruffled Sam's hair comfortingly.

"It'll be over soon, Sammy. Try to get some rest. I'll--I'll be right here, okay?"

And even though the words were awkward and the phrasing was uncertain, the bumbling reassurance was enough for Sam. His eyes closed, and despite the pain, he felt safe enough to attempt sleep again.

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For the next few hours, Dean watched intently as his brother slept, alert for any sign of another nightmare. He wanted to make sure Sam didn't have to suffer another replay of the night in the barn in his dreams, as much for Sam's sake as his own. Although he wouldn't admit it, he'd been scared by the sight of his kid brother helpless, vulnerable, and terrified by things that weren't real. Sure, Sam had always been sensitive, but Dean had never seen him so stricken by a nightmare, so sure that what he'd seen had been the truth. It had taken an alarming amount of convincing to make him understand that Dean was unharmed. Dean didn't know how much he could blame on the fever, and how much could be attributed to the trauma Sam had recently been through. Perhaps it was fair bit of both.

Regardless, Dean resigned himself to another night without rest of his own. He supposed it was just as well; the lumpy, uneven mattress of the hotel's twin bed was enough to keep him awake all night anyway. The Comfort Inn they were staying at near Clearfield, Pennsylvania was low-budget at best (at worst it was a flea-infested pit), but it was also inexpensive and, more importantly, low-key. Dean had been watching and listening to the news discreetly, keeping an eye out for his face on the TV or in the paper. So far there had been no mention of an arrest out for the name Jordan Robles, but he couldn't be too careful. Not until he reached Kansas could he relax a little, and even then he had to remain on guard. Hopefully the whole thing would blow over; after a couple of months the Jersey police might even give up on his case.

_Not likely. You'll be on the run the rest of your life, ace. And you've managed to drag Sam into it, too. Great job. You've really lived up to your father's expectations._

Dean was starting to wonder if maybe his whole family wasn't crazy. Father mysteriously missing, baby brother plagued by premonitions, and him, the elder, listening to the voice in his head and vehemently telling it to shut up. There wasn't a shrink in the world that had the sanity level required to sort out the Winchester's problems.

He sighed, reclining back into the stiff armchair and propping his feet on the coffee table. Through the moldy lace curtains he could see that dawn was still a few hours away; the only light came from the bulb of a harsh street lamp which flickered and buzzed unsteadily every alternate second. If they left at daybreak they could make it to Illinois by midnight tomorrow night, assuming that they didn't have to make any more emergency stops.

This particular break hadn't been because Dean was too tired to continue driving; his anxiety had him so hyped up it was comparable to being fed caffeine intravenously. Stopping for such a long time actually made him rather nervous, because the longer he stayed in one place, the longer he risked being exposed by the casual observer. But Sam had needed the rest; Dean realized that his brother wouldn't even survive the fifteen hour long drive to Illinois, let alone Kansas, with a freely bleeding stomach wound. So after driving at cruising speed of seventy miles and hour, for three hours straight--the very longest Dean could make himself go--he stopped here, in Clearfield Pennsylvania, two hundred miles from Jersey.

_As soon as the sun rises,_ Dean promised himself. _As soon as the sun rises, we'll be on our way. I can wait one night. The police can't be after me yet._

Even as he thought it he knew he was pushing his luck. Now that Sam had been seen to, they should be in the Chevy, driving hard towards the rendezvous point. Their father would have been able to do it. The man had nerves of steel, nothing fazed him.

But after seeing Sammy so out of it...the glazed sheen of pure panic in his eyes...

Dean just couldn't begrudge him one night's rest. He owed it to him.

Truth was, he owed Sam much more that a night's rest in a bed. He just didn't know how he would ever repay him the debt he truly owed.

_I let you down, Sammy. And damned if I know what I'm supposed to do next._

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Okay, so I was watching my tape of the Asylum episode last night, and I realized I had conveniently forgotten the trivial matter of the phone call Sam receives at the very end. Oops. My bad. Considering that there won't be a new episode this week because of some cheesy family movie that will run in its place, I figured my omission would be acceptable. Assuming that I don't finish this story before the next episode airs (and believe me, I won't), we'll just have to ignore everything that happens unless I can cleverly devise a way to work the new material in. Sound good? Wonderful.

Now, just a few things to address and I'll let you go. One, I'm hoping I was vague enough in my writing that the title doesn't make much sense just yet. Rest assured, it will. The idea of a certain Winchester brother being "cursed" becomes a central theme once they reach Kansas. And trust me, once they do, angst will abound.

Two, I hope I managed to express my love for the character Missouri. I really got a kick out of her, and I hope they bring her back on the show soon. In the next few chapters, she plays a major role, acting as a sort of guide and mentor to the brothers (especially Sam, with his growing "powers") and as a maternal figure once things…well, you'll see, won't you? Hee hee.

Lastly, a personal response to my reviewers, because I feel you deserve one for taking time to share your own with me. Certainly if you don't feel like slogging through this long mess you don't have to. Take the time to re-read my story and PLEASE--share with me any constructive criticism or questions you may have in a review. Thanks for reading!

**Dreema Azaleia Wingblade**-- Here's the next chapter, so you don't have to haunt me, lol. Thanks for your review!

**Phoebe**-- I live to serve. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Spuffyshipper**-- I'm glad you liked it. And I hope Dean doesn't get arrested, either. /grin/

**ashlyns**-- Thank you for your review!

**Legolas-Aragorn-r-hot**-- Thanks for being patient. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well. Lotsa chick-flick moments in this one, lol. Yay for sappiness! (Btw, your name is very, very true. /wink/)

**Adara-chan15**-- Oh my…I'm so glad you enjoyed the first chapter, and I was very pleased when I saw that you had written such an extensive review! You're making me blush, though. Hee hee. So you don't think I should separate the brothers, huh? Well, to be honest, I really don't want to separate them either, but they may not have much of a choice….

**Aciel**-- I've got you hooked? Thank you! That's a wonderful compliment; a writer always enjoys hearing that her readers are enjoying themselves. My gratitude to you for the review!

**othravenslvr**-- Tee hee hee, yes, well, I have been told that I am incredibly evil, but I always just thought they were jealous. Lol. I'm happy that the brotherly bonding stuff pleased you--I had a lot of fun writing it. Thanks for stopping in!

**RC**-- This was one of your favorite Supernatural fics? You're jealous of the way I write? Oh geez…/blushes to the roots of her hair/ That's some pretty high praise! I don't think I'm deserving of it, really, but I thank you for inflating my ego, nonetheless. /smile/

Hey, always nice to see a fellow Scariest Places junkie! That show was so interesting to me; too bad they no longer show it on ABC Fam. /sob/

And I totally agree with you on the choppy sentences thing. It's one of my worst faults as a writer. It always sounds so much better in my head when I think it, but then when I read it aloud, I always end up like, "What the hell was I thinking?" Lol. I'll work harder on it, I promise.

Thank you so much for the review!

**Anamalia-fear**-- I'm glad I have your seal of approval. Thanks for stopping in!

**ktlane**-- Thank you! I want to find out what happens to Sam, too. /cheeky grin/

**Hanyou-demoness**-- Thank you so much for all your kind words! Like I said to **RC**, I'm not sure I'm worthy of the praise, but I thank you for being so thoughtful. Don't cry, though! I wrote this spiffy new chapter! See? No need for tears. I would like it if you left me another review, though. I love hearing from you, and not just because you stoke my overly large ego, lol.

Thanks again, and PS: the angst level will rise progressively, I hope you're ready. The fun has already started….Mwa Hahahahaha!

**Angy**-- You're welcome! I'm happy to provide angsty treats for all! As for them getting out of New Jersey…Let's just say that it doesn't matter where they go; trouble will follow.

**tricksters apprentice**-- /hides behind couch cushion/ Eep! No need to throw things! I was a good little girl; here's the next chappie! Don't hurt me! (lol. Thanks for the review /wink/)

**Nate and Jake**-- Happy to oblige! Thank you!

**Angest182**-- ROFL. My writing style screams smart ass? I totally see it! Goodness, when my dad read this he nearly wet himself laughing so hard. He seemed to agree with you completely. /wink/ Your kind words really encouraged me to write more. Thanks for the wonderful review!

**DarkAmgel88**-- Your wish is my command! Thanks for stopping in!

**Lady Padalecki**-- Yes, Dean has been bitten by the guilt bug, and it seems I have slapped Sam over the head with the angst stick. Hope I didn't go overboard with it in this chappie….eh heh heh. /sheepish smile/ Thanks for your review, and btw, nice name /nudge nudge wink wink/

**Charli**-- You make it sound like you're addicted to my fiction. Hey, that almost rhymed! Lol. Thanks a lot, especially for telling me that you'd buy my novel. /wipes away a tear/ Really, that makes me, for lack of a better term, happy. Hugs for all!

**Elf Fanatic Lark**-- Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my twists; hopefully you'll continue to like them. Hee hee.

**supernaturalfan0718**-- Thank you, I'm glad you liked it!

**Spectral Scribe**-- Oh yes, I love delving deeper into the minds of our boys, in particular Sammy. He's just so fun to torment, him being the "sensitive one" and everything, lol. And I laughed at myself for mentioning my novel because it was a shameless plug on my part. Tee hee. Also I laugh because I'll probably never get around to finishing it. I keep getting distracted by the many fandoms out there with gorgeous guys such as Sammy and Dean. /drools/ But I digress. Thank you for reading!

**Ghostwriter-- **/sighs/ Always good to know that readers won't start throwing sharp objects at me. The position is open though, for my official bodyguard. Would you like to take up the banner and fearlessly throw yourself before my crap-tastic work, defending its honor and glory and such like? Lol, probably not. You wouldn't live long, not with some of the absolute muck I throw out there sometimes. Thanks for the review!

**ChaiGrl-- **Thank you! I'll try my hardest to continue writing on this one, I promise!

**DarkElixier66**-- Ack! Don't die! I'll tell you what happens next…/leans in for a conspiratorial whisper….then draws back, a thoughtful look on her face/ You know…before I tell you, I might want to figure it out first myself. Lol. Happy reading!

**Gator-Girl**-- Thank you! I look forward to hearing from you again!

**Mystery**-- Oh, thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it! Sam and Dean are just so fun to work with, it makes my job easy, lol.

**Stacee Phelps**-- They like me, they really like me! Lol. I hope this one was as good as the last!

**supernaturalandlostfan**-- I'll work hard to make sure the next chapter is just as interesting!

**klutzy-kay**-- Oh yes, poor Arena. Well, she just had to be a cute damsel in distress with spiritual powers, didn't she? It's her own fault, lol. And yes, Dean would do anything for Sammy, as you will soon see. /evil cackle/ But anyway, thank you for reviewing!

Whew! That's all, folks. **BUT**--and this is something important--**BUT** I have one last thing to tell you. Because of the cheesy family movie that will be playing over this week's episode of Supernatural (I assume it will, anyway), you will _probably_ have to wait for an update until next week, when the new episode airs. Sorry! I need a fresh dose of Sammy and Dean in action to keep my inspiration up. I need my Supernatural fix/shakes fist dramatically/

Anyway, see you in a week or so!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello to all, and Merry Christmas. Hope you are all having a great winter. Sorry for the long wait, but I did promise one more chapter. Please forgive the crappy ending. I was trying to just get it out there, so you all would know that I didn't forget about you. Unfortunately, it is now official: I am not going to be finishing this. It's totally AU now, and while some of you have expressed interest in reading it despite the obvious deviance from canon, I'm sorry to say that my enthusiasm for this story has died. Of course I still love Supernatural and the Winchester boys, but college has beaten the imagination out of me at the present. I encourage anyone who would like to continue this story to do so—you have my permission and my blessing. If not, that's cool too.

Anyway, this note is getting far too long. Forgive me for backing out on you all. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. //bows// Thank you!

**III**** The Morning's Regrets**

The next morning, Dean awoke feeling as if he hadn't slept at all. He was stiff and sore all over; he'd fallen asleep in the chair while keeping vigil over Sam. Groaning from a combination of discomfort and disappointment--he'd been having a fantastic dream, in which he and Sam had stayed the hell away from New Jersey--he glanced at the digital clock on the night stand. The display read 7:08 in harsh,

unforgiving red digits. Dean rubbed his eyes; he'd missed sunrise by a couple of hours, but that was okay. It was still an early enough start to get to Illinois by nightfall.

Moving like a drunk recovering from a hangover, he stumbled into the cramped, closet-like space that served as a bathroom. There was no time for a shower, unfortunately. Not that Dean had a strong inclination to use the hotel's washroom fascilities--anything with that much mildew growing in it was likely to be more useful in a grade school science fair. Instead he twisted the cold water tap as far as it would go and, bending over the sink, washed his face thoroughly in the tepid stream until he felt his eyes finally unglue. Still dripping, he went in search of a clean towel, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the hazy mirror hanging over the basin.

The face that stared back at him was disconcerting and not at all awe-inspiring. To put it lightly, he looked like death warmed over. Dean grimaced at the analogy, but the fact remained the same--he had definitely looked better. A few nights of little or no sleep had really done a number on him, paling his skin, darkening circles under his eyes, and drawing faint frown lines across his forehead. He was also, he discovered after running a hand across his chin, quite scruffy--he hadn't shaved in a week or so. This was not the face of the suave, dashing Dean Winchester, expert demon hunter and charming ladies' man.

This was Jordan Robles, a wanted man, prime suspect in the murder of sixteen year old Arena Hasting. This was the face of a man on the run from the law, the face of a man who was constantly glancing over his shoulder and listening for the wailing of sirens in the distance.

It was not a persona Dean enjoyed being associated with. He growled and smothered his face with the towel, blocking out the reflection.

God, how he wished he could just turn back time, just for one moment. He wished for quite a lot of things, actually. He wished he hadn't been so hot headed; perhaps there could have been a way to subdue Arena, perhaps her death could have been avoided. He wished he hadn't picked up the shotgun loaded with real bullets; rock salt certainly hurt like a bitch, but it wasn't lethal. He wished he'd listened to Sam in the first place when he'd cautioned them against visiting Shawnee Park. He wished...he wished he'd never involved Sam to begin with. Never mind Shawnee, he wished he'd never contacted Sam at college with the message that their father had gone missing. It was a mistake on his part. No, not a mistake. It was more than that.

He'd been selfish.

Dean knew he wasn't normal, and he knew that his path did not lead down the road to a wife, three kids and white picket fence. Hunting evil was what he was good at, what he lived for, and what he believed in. It was what his father believed in. Sam was his brother; it was supposed to be what he believed in too. A family affair.

But Sam didn't want that kind of life. He'd made that perfectly clear when he'd left for college. Dean had resented the rejection at first. He'd been bitter. Mostly he felt abandoned. He and Sam had always been together. They'd been a team as kids, working as protégés under their father, learning the ropes about ghost hunting. Then Sam realized that other kids his age were going fishing, or camping, or on vacations to Disney Land. Slowly they'd drifted apart. Sam finally left for good to attend school; Dean stayed behind to help their father.

When John Winchester disappeared, Dean actually got exited. The hunt was the perfect excuse to join up with Sam again. To be a team again. Sam had been reluctant, but Dean had persisted. He'd dragged his brother away from the normal life he so desired, and thrust him headlong into danger that Sam was totally unprepared to deal with. If he had just left Sam at college, maybe none of this would have happened.

Yet...had he been able to go back in time, Dean would have made the same choices and acted on the same impulses. Because part of him still wished Sam was like him, and that he enjoyed the life that their father had set out for them. Part of him wished that they could continue doing what they were doing; roaming the country side in search of their wayward father, hunting and destroying evil as they found it.

The night at the barn changed some things, though. The near tragedy forced Dean to reexamine his beliefs. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to involve Sam in the search for their dad. Maybe this life was one he was intended to live on his own. Again Dean thought of the prospect of leaving Sammy behind once they reached Kansas. He could bow out gracefully, and let Sam choose his own destiny, instead of trying to force one on him.

Somehow, the thought of killing demons and exorcising ghosts didn't seem so exciting if it meant he had to do it alone. But if he was alone, the only one who could be hurt was himself.

"Dean..."

Dean froze, pulling his face out of the towel--and his mind out of his depressing thoughts--with some effort and listening hard. The sound had been almost inaudible; he might have imagined it.

"Dean...!"

It wasn't his imagination. Someone was calling his name.

_Shit._ "Sammy," he muttered, and tore open the bathroom door.

The predawn light filtering in through the curtained windows illuminated the room in shades of gray, halfway between twilight and true darkness. Still, Dean could clearly see Sam tossing under the covers, struggling with an unseen force. He closed the distance between the bathroom and the bed with three long strides, dread clogging his throat. He didn't know if he could deal with another of Sam's horrifying nightmares so soon after last night; the memories were still fresh in his mind.

"Sammy," he breathed, leaning over the bed apprehensively. Sam's expression twisted between fear and pain; the damp cloth Dean had placed over his brow had slid off as a result of his restless stirring. Dean brushed his fingers against the side of Sam's neck and was not the least bit surprised to find the heat of fever there. Sam groaned at the touch, and flinched away.

"Sammy," Dean called again, getting more nervous by the second. "Come on, wake up." He reached out to shake him by the shoulder, and received a shock as Sam's eyes flew open and a ragged cry erupted from his mouth.

"DEAN!" In a repeat motion of last night, Sam instinctively tried to bolt into a sitting position, but Dean was ready for him. Using as little force as possible, he caught Sam's shoulders and held him still; he was afraid that too much motion too soon would damage the fragile stitches that Dean had put in his right side.

What he wasn't prepared for, though, was for Sam to fight his hold; he twisted and writhed, his breath coming in shuddering gasps that could not be mistaken for anything else except stark fear. Sam was once again terrified out of his mind.

Brown eyes focused on Dean's face, but it was evident Sam wasn't really seeing him. His expression was so filled with horror that Dean had half a mind to wonder if he had sprouted horns and a tail within the last few minutes. Sam didn't even recognize him. "No, let me go! Let go! Dean! Dean, help me!"

_Jesus, Sammy, not again._ "Sam! Sam, listen to me!" Dean barked in his most commanding, convincing voice. "You were dreaming, Sam. Snap out of it!"

Sam blinked, and the motion brought a glimmer of recognition to his eyes; the awareness spread until Dead was fairly sure that Sam had a grip on reality again. He still looked spooked, though, even worse than the previous night. Hesitantly, Dean withdrew until he was sitting perched on the edge of the mattress, yet still close enough to restrain Sam if he had to.

"You with me now?" He asked, watching carefully for signs of a relapse. Despite the intensity of the fear, Sam seemed to be recovering quickly. Last night it had taken much more convincing to get him to come around. Dean took this as a good sign.

Sam sucked in a shuddering breath, and in a timid voice, he said, "D-Dean?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, Sammy?"

"I'm going to be sick," he groaned, and Dean just barely had time to procure a trash can from the bathroom before the first wave of nausea hit the younger Winchester and he retched, vomiting what little substance was to be found in his stomach.

_So much for a good sign_, Dean thought grimly. Had it been anyone but Sammy, the sight of someone being sick would have been too much for him to handle. As it happened, he'd been witness to Sam puking his guts out on more than one occasion, and was sadly accustomed to it. He held the waste bin in position until the retching became dry-heaves, which after a time finally calmed to unsteady gulps of air. Dean helped his brother slump back into the cushions, then stepped outside to dispose of the mess contained in the trash can. When he returned, he found that Sam had drifted off again, but he placed the bin next to the bed anyway, just in case.

Dean then sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling suddenly the ache of exhaustion in his muscles and the pain of a tension headache thrumming through his skull. He massaged his temples with enough force to make dark spots bloom under his eyelids, but the effort did not lessen the throbbing, nor did it help him to think any clearer. His head was wrapped in a fog, bogged down by everything that had gone wrong over the past twenty four hours, espeically this recent development.

Sam was sick. The cause of it was anyone's guess, but it could have been from any number of things, only few of which Dean knew how to treat extensively. It could be nothing serious; a reaction to the doubtless horrific things Sam saw in his nightmares. Or it could be something much more troublesome, such as an infection, or worse, a side-effect of the _thing's _attack--a poison, or a venom, or some sort of curse...If that was the case, Dean would be helpless to stop it.

He'd never felt so useless in all his life.

Outside, the sun was rising higher over the horizon, turning the skyline a spectacular shade of red that was streaked through with the navy blue of night. Dean stared blindly at the sunrise through a gap in the curtains, completely unaware of nature's beauty. In fact, far from inspiring him, it stirred his growing anxiety; his hands compulsively clenched and unclenched the bedsheets; his toe tapped impatiently; his eyes darted between the window and the clock. They should have been on the road hours ago; Illinois was still twelve hours away. The hours were ticking away faster than seconds.

He glanced at Sam. His brother was sleeping deeply, but he was still too pale, and his skin too warm. Moving him around and depriving him of the rest he so sorely needed was assuredly not the best idea, but Dean was out of options. They'd spent too much time in Clearfield already. All he wanted to do now was drive as hard and fast as he could to Kansas, because frankly, he was tired of being on his own, of being the responsible one. He was tired of being forced into making choices that inevitably blew up in his face. He wanted someone else to do it. He wanted someone else to take charge, someone who knew what he was doing, someone that wasn't Dean.

He wanted his father, he realized. More than anything, Dean wished his father were with him. It seemed childish to admit, but never before had he so desperately wanted his father by his side.

_Dad would know what to do. Dad would know how to fix this._

For a few long moments, he stared at his cell phone sitting on the bedside table. But he didn't pick it up. He didn't dial the number he knew so well he could've dialed in his sleep. He didn't leave any pleading messages. If John Winchester intended to communicate with him, he would have done so by now. This was on Dean's shoulders now; he couldn't shrug his problems off on someone else. If he couldn't figure out the solution, no one would.

He just wished he had some help. A guide, a sign, anything to tell him what his next move should be. There were too many pieces of this puzzle for him to fit together into a workable solution--the police, the _thing_, Sam's powers...not to mention the original cornerstone piece, his father's disappearance. If only there was some miracle cure, a simple answer that would rectify all of these mistakes and misfortunes...

_One step at a time, ace. First get to Illinois, then you can start worrying about everything else again. _

Dean inhaled deeply, a false calm settling over him. Yes, that was his next move. Drive to Illinois, meet up with Missouri, and return home to Kansas. Strict, clear cut, and straight forward. A small part of an otherwise disastrous situation, but one he could deal with easily. This narrow-minded approach was something Sam called "thinking linearly," and Dean was quite practiced at it. It meant, as Sam often told him, of thinking of one problem at a time, from point A to point B, heedless of the difficulties between point B and point C until the hurldes were in sight. Sam had warned him a thousand times about the dangers of failing to see the big picture. He'd said it would get Dean killed some day. Dean had always replied that he wouldn't have to worry with Sam around, since Sam always saw the big picture for him.

The truth was, Dean didn't know if he could handle the big picture. He was more of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy. He'd drive himself insane trying to think about the what ifs. That was Sam's job. And since his brother was currently unable to protest the faults of linear thinking, Dean was all too happy to embrace the philosophy; to forget about everything else and focus entirely on getting his his Impala and not looking back.

He clapped his hands together and stood. The exhaustion and headache he replaced with fresh resolve. It was time to go.

"Yeah. Time to get a move on," Dean said aloud, as much to encourage himself as to spur himself into action. "No problem. Just don't think about it. As long as you don't think about it, it'll be okay."

_Ignoring the problem doesn't make it disappear, Dean._

Great, now the voice was starting to sound like Sammy in lecture mode. Bad enough that Dean had to deal with the masochistic psuedo-personality, now he had to listen to his sibling/surrogate mother from the confines of his own head. If it would have helped, Dean would have put his fingers in his ears. Instead, he grabbed his car keys from the night stand and began to sing all the verses of the Twelve Days of Christmas: it was the longest song he knew and could keep him from thinking for at least a good fifteen minutes. Long enough to get back on the road without having a mental breakdown.

Then again, he was singing the Twelve Days of Christmas. Aloud. And with great (though forced) gusto. Perhaps the breakdown had already found him. Too bad. He didn't much fancy the straightjacket look.

_On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…_

As Dean manuevered Sam into the backseat of the Impala, he was actually thankful that his brother was unconscious. He still had eleven verses to go, and it was a long way to Illinois.


End file.
